


The Great Gilmore Bake Off

by yeahitshowed



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/F, Great British Bake Off AU, never thought you'd read those words didja!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahitshowed/pseuds/yeahitshowed
Summary: “What about her?” Paris demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Rory. “Isn’t there a penalty for sabotaging your competition?”“I didn’t sabotage you!” Rory said.“Right. And Brutus was just giving Caesar a friendly pat on the back with a dagger.”Paris and Rory compete on the Great British Bake Off.





	The Great Gilmore Bake Off

At the time, moving to London right out of college had seemed like a romantic adventure on par with yacht-stealing and umbrella-jumping. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent — just a year or two of being young and crazy and in love, that’s what Logan had said. _In omnia paratus,_ right? 

Apparently not. A decade later, the divorce papers were signed, their belongings were all divided up, and Rory was still living in jolly old England with a lot of time on her hands. 

Applying to the show was a total fluke. It was all her mom’s fault, really: Lorelai was visiting, tried one of Rory’s mille-feuilles, and decided then and there that Rory was destined for star-bakerhood. (The sudden push to apply might have also been Lorelai’s way of getting Rory out of her recent joblessness-induced rut, but Rory chose to believe that her mille-feuilles were just that good.) She got called back for an interview, and then another, and then, boom: she was officially one of the lucky contestants set to rub elbows with Mary and Paul for the next season. The whole process was downright fun!

———————————————————————-

Any baker worth their salt dreamed of winning the Great British Bake Off, and you better believe Paris Geller was worth her salt. Hell, she was worth her _sugar._ Paris had won nearly every amateur baking competition the States had to offer, and once she set her sights across the pond, nothing could stand in her way. The Bake Off only took applications from UK residents? Piece of cake — she’d marry Asher Fleming, get permanent residency in two years, then kick his creepy old British ass out the door. The application process was a slow, grueling popularity contest between thousands of eager hopefuls? No sweat—Paris had Terrance on speed dial, ready to give her a pep talk or a Klonopin prescription at a moment’s notice. 

There was nothing Paris hadn’t done, no step she hadn’t taken, to guarantee her spot on GBBO. The last few years had been one big goddamn _Rocky_ training montage of timed bakes and sugarwork, but it was finally paying off: she’d been named one of next season’s twelve competitors, and those other eleven oven-watching homebodies didn’t have a chance in hell. 

———————————————————————-

“For the very first time, on your mark—”

“Get set—”

“Bake!” Sue and Mel chirped in unison, and the tent leapt into action. 

Their first signature bake was a Fraisier cake, which meant lots of strawberry goodness. (Rory had spent half an hour on the phone last week convincing Sookie that sending a basket of Jackson’s fresh strawberries all the way to England was, while sweet, not the most practical idea.) Their first chunk of baking time was spent in relative isolation, all of the bakers focusing on mixing and pouring and explaining their mixing and pouring to the camera.

Rory’s wasn’t particularly stressed; her sponge was rising nicely, and she’d already gotten started on her crème pâtissière. Now that the challenge had really started, the twelve contestants were opening up with each other a little more, cracking jokes and asking questions. Well, eleven contestants, really — one woman refused to move from her table. The suspicious looks she kept giving anyone walking by were made considerably less threatening by the fact that her short blonde hair was dusted in flour.

“She seems a bit on edge, doesn’t she?” one of the bakers whispered to Rory. “Poor thing — the stress is already getting to her.” 

Mel and Sue had also picked up on the tension in the air; they descended on the lone baker, armed with their big bright host personalities. 

“How’re we doing, love?” Mel asked, laying a gentle hand on the baker’s shoulder. 

The baker jerked up, a little puff of flour coming off her bangs at the movement. “Stellar.”

“Can you tell us a little about your Fraisier cake, Paris?” Sue said. “Or should I say _Par-ee_?”

“ _Très français, comme une fraisier!”_ Mel added, gesturing to the strawberries on Paris’s cutting board. 

“Look, I know topical puns and simple socializing pay your bills, but I’m really under the gun here,” Paris said tersely. “How about you go ask beardy about his cake? That is, if he has any left by judging time.” 

A bearded contestant at the next table over sheepishly stopped snacking on his sponge cake. 

“Deep breaths, my dear,” Sue said, backing away from Paris’s table. “Bakers, you’ve got ten minutes!” 

Everyone buzzed around excitedly, assembling their dessert and lovingly adding the finishing touches. Rory was definitely starting to feel the stress; with only a minute left, she realized that she hadn’t left enough strawberries to garnish, and darted over to one of the side tables to grab a few more. As she dashed back to her station, she felt herself collide with someone else — there was a very loud _splat_ — and then Paris the angry baker’s cake was smushed on the floor.

For a moment, they both just looked at the mess in stunned silence. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Rory managed to say, but Paris ignored her, leaning down to scrape up what was left of her creation. 

When Rory tried to help, Paris snarled, “Get away from me.” 

“It’s going to be alright,” Mel assured the two of them, swooping in to examine the damage. “Accidents happen. Paul and Mary will understand.” 

“Accidents?” Paris grumbled under her breath. 

“I really didn’t mean to,” Rory tried, but their time was up, and judgment was upon them. 

Paul and Mary had been hovering in a corner of the tent for the duration of the challenge. As the contestants waited at their tables, they spoke quietly with a producer — presumably about the tragic end of Paris’s cake. Sure enough, as soon as the cameras starting rolling again, they assured Paris that she wouldn’t lose points for the mishap.

“What about her?” Paris demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Rory. “Isn’t there a penalty for sabotaging your competition?” 

“I didn’t sabotage you!” Rory said.

“Right. And Brutus was just giving Caesar a friendly pat on the back with a dagger.” 

“Ladies, please,” Mary said sternly, and both of them shut up. Mary Berry is not someone you disagree with. “This was clearly an unfortunate accident, and nothing more. Let’s move on, shall we?” 

All through the technical and the showstopper, Paris gave her the meanest looks a person could give while whipping mascarpone and molding fondant flowers. After they were dismissed for the day — with Rory crowned as star baker, which did not help with the mean looks — the eleven remaining competitors started collecting their things and heading out.

Just as Rory was about to leave, Paris appeared out of seemingly nowhere. “Oh — I didn’t see you there,” Rory said, startled. “Where’d you come from?” 

“You may have caught me off guard with your little stumbling act, but I’m onto you, Rory Gilmore of Stars Hollow, Connecticut,” Paris said, crossing her arms. 

“You googled me?” 

“I research all my opponents. Especially the ones that play dirty.”

“I’m sorry I knocked over your cake,” Rory said. “But it really was an accident. I promise, I’ll be more careful next week. Truce?” 

Rory held out her hand. Paris examined it like she was searching for a detonator. “You expect me to believe that you _accidentally_ screwed over the only other American in the running? Fat chance. You started this turf war, and you’re gonna have to finish it. Stay out of my way. I _will_ make this show a living hell for you.” 

With that, Paris stormed off into the night, leaving Rory to wonder what exactly she’d gotten herself into. 

———————————————————————-

After the first episode aired, the tabloids had a field day with their headlines. “Cranky Yanks!” “Anything But A Cakewalk!” “Paris is Burning!” One publication encouraged their readers to side with either ‘Team Rory’ or ‘Team Paris,’ depending on who they thought had been in the right. The internet dubbed the incident #cakegate. Paris didn’t think they could’ve chosen a stupider name. 

But never mind all of that. Paris didn’t have time to contemplate just how low the population’s average IQ was (even if this particular population had such intelligent-sounding accents). She had exactly thirty-six hours until the next day of filming started, and the majority of those hours needed to be spent preparing. It was Bread Week, which wasn’t exactly Paris’s specialty. All the standing around and waiting made her antsy; she had a bad habit of opening the oven door to check on her dough’s rise. 

Hopefully, the next day or so of practice-bakes would break that habit. As she crafted loaf after loaf, she kept last week’s episode on in the background. (Pro athletes watched their old plays to learn from their mistakes, so why shouldn’t she?) Annoyingly, the footage of the actual baking was interspersed with the cheesy ‘get-to-know-you’ segments they’d had each baker film. It really messed up her flow. 

About halfway through the episode, Rory Gilmore’s little segment played. She was rolling croissants in a modern-looking kitchen, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. A woman with Rory’s big blue eyes was sitting at the dining room table, making her laugh. “Rory always shares her recipes first with her mother,” Sue’s voiceover explained. 

Paris realized she’d overworked her dough. Cursing, she tossed it in the trash, getting ready to start from scratch. She really needed to stop letting this Rory girl get under her skin. 

———————————————————————-

Rory thought this whole ‘Team Rory/Team Paris’ thing had gotten seriously out of control. It had been four weeks since #cakegate, and yet the internet still had it in its virtual head that the two of them had a feud to rival Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. All because of one stupid incident! 

Well — there had been that moment during Bread Week when Paris had hissed the entirety of Sonnet 116 into Rory’s ear during the signature, but that had been more baffling than feud-inducing. The point was, fans of the show were blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

“I’ll miss you next week, Gilmore,” Paris said to her as they set up their stations for the first challenge of the weekend. “The tent won’t be the same without Betty Crocker Barbie.” 

Okay, you know what? Bring on the feud. 

The rest of the challenges felt less like a group-based bakeoff and more like a PvP video game. No matter what Rory did, she could feel Paris watching her, waiting for a slip-up; and as much as she hated to admit it, Rory was keeping a close eye on Paris’s progress, too. It became a race — whose dough would rise faster, whose presentation would win Mary’s heart, whose bottom was the least soggy — and they stayed neck-and-neck all weekend. Rory got better comments on her signature, but Paris came first in the technical. Paris’s flavors were more consistent, but Rory took bigger risks in her recipes. By the top of the showstopper, both of them were sweating up a storm, thoughts of the ‘star baker’ title dancing in their heads. 

Paul approached Rory’s table, giving her handiwork his signature piercing stare. “Tell us about your bake, Rory,” he said with the confidence of a man that had already pinpointed ten mistakes in Rory’s technique. 

As Rory explained her pie recipe, she was acutely aware of Paris’s eyes on her back. “It’s hard not to get lost in those baby blues, isn’t it?” she heard Mel say to Paris. 

“Her eyes aren’t _that_ blue,” Paris replied immediately. 

“…I was talking about Paul, love,” Mel said awkwardly. 

Rory fumbled through the rest of her explanation, trying very hard not to analyze what she’d just overheard. Paul nodded sagely, and the challenge continued.

When Sue called out, “Two minutes, bakers!” Paris took a good long look at Rory’s pie.

“What?” Rory said defensively.

“Nothing,” Paris said. “It looks good. You were trying to get the color as uneven as possible, right?” 

“Only if I was copying you,” Rory shot back, because apparently she was seven years old. 

Mary and Paul circled the bakers like a pair of really critical vultures. Once their comments were all given out, it was time for the fateful decision-making process. Everyone was shooed out of the tent, resigned to an hour or so of pondering their GBBO future while sitting on lawn chairs. Per usual, everyone made small talk except Paris, who sat silently with her fists clenched in her lap. 

Forty minutes into the wait, Rory was getting close to losing it. She kept pacing back and forth, glancing obsessively at the tent’s entrances for any sign of movement. After such a long day, all she wanted was to find out where she ranked so she could go home and enjoy a couple days sans obscure pastry recipes and judgy British people. 

“Oh my god, can you stop padding your daily step count for two seconds?” Paris said from her lawn chair. “You’re getting in my light, and god knows when we’ll get any more of that in this raincloud of a country.”

“I’m sure your sunshine-y personality will keep you nice and cozy,” Rory said.

“Careful with the sass,” Paris said, nodding at the cameraman positioned semi-sneakily across the lawn. “You’ll get us on the front page of _The Sun_ again. I can see the headline now: ‘Americans Spill The Tea.’”

“Fine.” Rory plopped down in a lawn chair, crossing her arms. “I’ll sit here silently, stewing in my own anxiety, until I waste away to nothing. What was that called in the old days? Consumption? It would be pretty funny if somebody on a baking show died of consumption.”

“You’re anxious?” Paris clarified. “About the results?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Paris said after a slight pause.

“So there you go.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two, listening to the other bakers’ friendly British small talk. “Do you usually get anxious?” Paris burst out.

“About the challenges? Of course,” Rory said.

“Oh.” Paris kept staring at the tent. “You always seem so happy.” 

“Well, even with the recurring stress dreams about Paul baking me into a cake, I’m having fun,” Rory shrugged. “That’s sort of the show’s thing, isn’t it?” 

Paris chewed her lip. “Yeah.”

“Are you…not having fun?” Rory asked.

“Why do you ask? Is this some sort of Machiavellian psyche-out thing?” Paris said suspiciously. 

God, talking to Paris was a technical challenge all on its own. “No,” Rory said patiently. “I’m just asking, because it seems like you’re really hard on yourself for no reason. You’re a great baker, Paris.”

“How great can I be when all of Britain’s on Team Rory?” Paris huffed.

“What do a bunch of tabloid readers know? Those people probably think that choux pastry is some kind of edible footwear.” Rory took Paris’s reluctant smile as a win. “If I were a random viewer and I saw everything you’ve done so far, I’d be Team Paris, all the way.” 

“Thanks,” Paris said, her expression bordering normal human levels of friendliness. 

“Alright, bakers!” Sue called from the tent. “The judges have made their decisions!”

As everyone filed back into the space, Rory heard Paris grumble, “You’re a great baker, too.” 

———————————————————————-

Rory and Paris’s heart-to-heart was featured front and center in the next episode that aired. That clip, coupled with Paris’s comment about Rory’s eyes, went viral overnight. The ‘Team Rory/Team Paris’ drama was long forgotten; fans started circulating the idea of ‘Team Raris.’ 

But enough about online silliness. With only four bakers left, the stakes had never been higher; you could cut the tension in the air with one of the many, many knives the tent had to offer. The theme was Biscuit Week, and the two American bakers were feeling a little out of their depth.

At least, Rory thought that Paris was as lost as she was. They’d talked briefly before today’s signature challenge began, comparing their recipes and griping about their failed practice bakes. But then the cameras started rolling, and Paris got all standoffish. Maybe she didn’t want to feed the ‘Team Raris’ rumors. 

“How’s it going, Rory?” Sue said cheerfully, popping over just as Rory was taking her last batch of biscuits out of the oven. 

“It’s going!” Rory said. 

Sue observed her table. “I must say, I’m disappointed,” she said. “I was expecting something deep-fried or wrapped in Twinkies. Where’s the American spin on this English classic?” 

Before Rory could defend the United States’ questionable culinary legacy, there was a loud, decidedly non-BBC-friendly expletive from the next table over. 

Paris emerged from a cloud of smoke, clutching a tray of blackened biscuits. “Burnt,” she muttered, tossing the ruined batch in the trash. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she retreated to a remote corner of the tent.

Sue started to follow, presumably to fulfill her hostly duty of comforting crying contestants. Rory doubted, however, that Sue’s arsenal of positive comments and gentle jokes would do much for Paris.

“I got it,” Rory said, bypassing Sue to join Paris in the corner. Paris took one look in her direction and kicked into attack mode.

“Come to gloat?” she said, the waver in her voice making her only slightly less terrifying than usual.

“About what?” 

“The end of my televised baking career, obviously.”

“Oh, please.” Rory crossed her arms. “I googled you, Geller. You won _Cutthroat Kitchen_ with your eyes closed. Literally. That show has some weird sabotages, by the way. Are you really gonna let some crispy biscuits take you down?” 

“I don’t have time to do more,” Paris protested, even as Rory dragged her back to her table. 

“So I’ll help you. I’m pretty much done anyway. Do you have any more dough, or do we need to start from scratch?”

“Why are you helping me?” Paris asked, watching Rory gathering mixing bowls and fresh ingredients. 

“You push me to be a better baker, whether you’re trying to or not,” Rory said. “I might as well do the same for you. Plus, maybe you’ll finally believe me when I say I’m not out to destroy you.” 

Paris’s face was looking sort of teary again. “Maybe I will,” she said, getting back to work. 

———————————————————————-

Three bakers remained: Rory, Paris, and the kindly old gentleman who kept snacking on his own creations. All that was left was one final showstopper, a magnificent, three-tiered cake, and then they’d find out who among them was truly the best amateur baker in the land. 

Past-Rory — the Rory who had stayed up for days waiting to hear back from the show’s selection committee — would have been shocked to know that, on the morning of the Bake Off’s final challenge, that coveted first-place spot wasn’t the top priority in Present-Rory’s head. Instead, Present-Rory was preoccupied with asking out her fiercest competition.

Two things had become painfully clear to Rory over the past few weeks: one, that she and Paris had very big, very confusing feelings for each other; and two, that neither of them knew what to do about it. Every time one of them got dangerously close to acknowledging it, the other ran off to check on their bake or whip up some unnecessary topping. The tabloids were going nuts with their coverage of the ‘Team Raris’ updates, which didn’t help the situation one bit. Sue and Mel, at least, seemed to be trying their best to give the two some semblance of privacy by standing in front of the cameras whenever they sensed tension. The producers were not happy.

Hopefully, Rory could put an end to all the confusing nonsense today. She pulled Sue aside before the challenge began and filled her in on her plan. Sue passed on the idea to the show’s higher-ups for approval, which they wholeheartedly gave (not surprising, since it’d surely be a ratings booster). As per the plan, Rory was allowed to stay in the tent after the other two bakers were shooed off to give the judges time to ruminate on the winner. 

“What are you doing?” Paris said, pausing at the flap of the tent to observe Rory’s still-active workspace. “We’re supposed to go to the lawn.”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you there in a sec,” Rory said, cracking an egg into her mixing bowl.

Paris made a beeline back to Rory’s table, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t high school, Rory. Extra credit bakes aren’t gonna boost your score. Did you even get permission to—”

“Yes,” Rory interrupted. “You said you’d believe me when I promised I wasn’t out to destroy you, right? Well, now’s the time. Just—trust me, okay?”

“Fine,” Paris said, still scrutinizing Rory’s setup for any hint as to what she was up to. “Hurry it up, though. You’ve got a veritable army of Stars Hollow goons waiting for you outside.” 

Rory whipped up her surprise, handed it off to Sue (bless her), and went to embrace her goons with open arms. Plenty of people had shown up for the end-of-the-series picnic, but Rory’s posse was definitely the largest: her mom and Luke had come, of course, bringing Sookie and Jackson along for good measure; Lane and Zack were attempting to corral their children with little success; and her grandmother was chatting up Mary Berry, the two of them looking perfectly at home together. 

“Bakers!” Mel called to the three finalists. “The time has come! Front and center, please!” 

“What a season this has been,” Sue said warmly, beaming at the three of them. “We couldn’t be prouder of you three, truly.”

As Sue continued with her speech, Mel sidled up to Rory, passing her a large mass of tinfoil. “Paris,” Rory whispered, starting to unwrap her creation. 

“Not a good time,” Paris hissed, eyes glued to the judges. 

Riding an adrenaline high and anxious to get this done before the winner was announced, Rory shoved the tinfoil mess into Paris’s hands.

“…Paris!” Sue announced, and the crowd erupted. Mary crossed toward Paris, holding out the first-place trophy. But Paris wasn’t looking at the trophy. She was too focused on the small cake in her hands, frosted pink with piped white flowers around the edges. In the center, written in Rory’s best icing cursive, was the question: “Dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Paris said, her voice cracking slightly. 

“Yes indeed,” Mary said bemusedly, still extending the trophy. Paris blushed, balancing the cake with one hand so she could claim her prize. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent consuming the final challenge’s cakes and celebrating Paris’s victory. Rory’s friends and family welcomed Paris without question, which was especially fortunate since Paris didn’t seem to have brought anyone to the picnic herself. After the festivities wound down, Rory found Paris arguing with Sookie about recipes and pulled her aside. “Does dinner still work?” She asked nervously.

Paris shrugged. “It might be excessive at this point.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“This has already been the best day I’ve ever had.”

Thanks to a well-hidden cameraman, the kiss that followed was soon plastered on every British news site that gave a damn about amateur baking drama (which seemed to be all of them). Despite the impassioned online arguments among fans regarding who actually deserved to win and which judge was biased toward who, the internet was uncharacteristically in agreement about the real winner of the series: Team Raris, all the way. 


End file.
